


Razor's Edge

by alreadysomeone



Category: JAG (TV 1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alreadysomeone/pseuds/alreadysomeone
Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, Mac misses Webb, and Webb misses Mac.
Relationships: Sarah MacKenzie/Clayton Webb





	Razor's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Up through Season Nine's The Boast.

Thanksgiving, 2003

It’s true that since we’d returned from Paraguay , Harm was never a topic of discussion in my conversations with Clay. Recently, neither has much of anything else. Truth be told, I haven’t spoken to Clay in about three weeks. Not for lack of want, and I want more than I’d like to admit, actually. But his home phone only rings and rings and rings; no answering machine ever picks up. His office won’t tell me if he’s even in town. And I haven’t worked up the nerve yet to call his mother; since hearing about Harm’s phone call to Porter, I don’t want the woman thinking that the whole JAG staff is stalking her son.

Our relationship, for lack of a better word, had been stuck in some kind of post-traumatic stress limbo. We’d flirt and toss about innuendo as if we were about to jump into bed, but there’d been no follow through. For me, it was because I wasn’t ready to start something that I knew would be much more serious than a simple fling. Never mind the professionalism issue, but after sharing such a life altering experience as we did in Paraguay, and his somewhat surprising declarations of affection for me, I knew that no matter how lightly we might have tried to couch the situation, it would be a serious emotional entanglement. And I knew I wasn’t prepared for that until we could really talk about it openly, instead of through veiled suggestive banter.   
Though, at this point, I’d settle for just talking to him, period.

We’d spent some evenings together, several lunches, and made lots of phone calls. There’d been, between us, a nice, easy rapport. Then the dinners ended, the lunches faded to a spotty few, and the phone calls decreased in frequency, finally ceasing completely. I knew he’d been getting back to work, and his hours, combined with the toll they were taking on his still-recovering body, were grueling, at first. He never complained, but off the cuff remarks here and there about needing rehab for his job, rather than for the injuries he sustained in Paraguay , were enough to send the message loud and clear. It still hurt, though, as I felt him pulling away from me, and diminishing our once frequent contact.

I’m due at Bud and Harriet’s in an hour, and, while I love spending holidays with them, and my JAG “family” – they’re the closest thing any of us has to an extended family here – I’ll be thinking of the one individual who’ll be conspicuously missing from the otherwise present list of people I’m thankful for.

Hours later, the turkey was carved, toasts were made, dessert was plentiful, and Harm and I even shared a conversation which left me grateful for the way we seem to be finding our way back to a comfortable rapport with each other. Home again, I spin the deadbolt on my front door and sigh a self-indulgent breath into my empty apartment. It’s only 7 pm , and I’m not sure what to do with myself. I feel both full of thanks and warmth for my friends, and lonely, all at the same time.

I turn the heat up, wanting to treat myself to a warm and cozy evening, insulating myself from the sleet that’s started to sheet down from the sky. My bathtub seems to be calling to me, so I indulge there, as well. I draw a bath and even light a few scented candles – vanilla and one called ‘pine-cinnamon’ that Chloe gave me last Christmas.

Shedding my clothes in my room, I pad into my bathroom, turn off the light, and enjoy the soft, warm glow of just the candlelight and the ambient illumination from my bedside lamp. The water is a little too hot, and I have to take my time getting in, starting with my chilled feet, eventually sinking all the way in, enjoying the sensual feeling of the rising line of the hot water on my skin.

Leaning back, I adjust a rolled up towel under my neck and close my eyes. My mind, again, is drawn to the Thanksgiving theme of what I’m grateful for; this year, there’s a lot. My sobriety, my friends and family, my career, my *life*… After the plane crash in Paraguay , I immediately sensed a shift in my outlook. It wasn’t exactly a ‘seize the day’ mentality, and I hate to say that I felt I’d been given a ‘second chance;’ it was more like I knew I had an opportunity to look at things through a completely different lens. What I saw with more clarity was the need for closure with Harm, and to truly savor life, since so many so close to me had nearly lost theirs, and I’d come close to losing my own, as well.

Putting that into practice, however, hadn’t been very easy. It’s true, I’m back into a routine at work, and I feel like I’ve gotten a sense of emotional closure with Harm; but instead of savoring life, I feel like it’s just ‘business as usual.’ I search my mind, and pinpoint the source of my discontent as Clay. Yet another man I feel like I need to come to some kind of conclusion with. Terminating the possibility of a relationship is precisely what I don’t want, but the way things have been left now, I have no idea what’s going on, and, without being able to talk to him, I’m stuck with no option to go forwards or backwards.

I breathe in the steam from the bath, adjust my position in the water, and slowly lift my hands out of, and back into, the water, feeling the sensations on my skin of the cool air and the warm bath. Willing my mind to stop analyzing, I concentrate on my body, focusing on the physical, instead of the mental, aspects of my being.

My body no longer shows any evidence of the battering it took in Paraguay – either at Sadiq’s hacienda or during our crash landing. But it’s really just been in the past couple of weeks that I’ve felt 100%. I’ve been kickboxing again, going three times a week, and either weight training or running on the other mornings. I feel physically strong, and that makes me really happy. Since getting sober, my physical strength has been kind of a symbol of my emotional strength; it’s bolstered my confidence, and just doing the exercise gives me a peace of mind, and a way to channel any frustrations.

Taking in a deep breath through my nose, I consider a source of frustration that exercise hasn’t been able to completely abolish. A sexual outlet has been missing from my life for some time, and, while a girl’s got a few tricks up her sleeve, I do miss being intimate with an actual man. And here in the privacy or my bathtub, tonight, when I’m feeling introspective, I allow myself to freely admit that who I’d really like to relieve my sexual tension with is Clay. We’ve tossed out sexual comments at each other, and, while I’ve given serious thought to the emotional aspects of beginning something with him, I’ve, for some reason, avoided letting myself vividly imagine what becoming physical with him would be like. Perhaps it was because if I did, then I’d have had a harder time not pouncing on him one night after dinner, or at the end of a lunch date. Just toying with the idea now has my mind reeling with possibilities and scraps of half-formed scenarios. I do crave him physically.

Under the water, I rest my hands on my thighs, almost unconsciously moving them toward the juncture of my legs, where a heat that out-warms the bath water has started. It’s so easy to picture Clay’s eyes looking into mine, sharing a laugh at a sexually charged joke he’s made. Instead of the way we usually brush them off, now, in my mind, I stare at him, and we both grow serious, the air between us becoming heavy with what we both know is anticipation and want.  
I don’t care who makes the first move, and my mind’s eye flashes to us kissing. More than the soft farewell kiss we shared in Paraguay , and more than the fast ‘hello’ and ‘good bye’ pecks we’ve quickly and platonically bestowed on one another since our return. Though, after experiencing those, it’s easy to imagine how his lips would feel on mine, when pressed there with purpose and longing.

My lips part and I move a hand between my legs, teasing at my folds, imaging the way Clay would touch me. How he would feel, how easily I could become unraveled under his touch.  
The jarring and unsettling ring of the phone jerks me out of my fantasy, and I sit up, realizing that, while I’ll never make it to answer the thing, my bath water’s grown tepid and I’ve begun to turn into a prune.

I hear my machine pick up after the fifth ring; it’s Harriet, thanking me for coming and for bringing the pecan bars. I smile, the thankful feeling for my friends returning again as I wrap my fluffy robe around my toweled-off body. I brush my teeth and do my other bedtime rituals, even though it’s early.

Puttering around the house for a while, I tidy up the mess I’d made while baking the pecan bars and deciding what to wear; and I change the sheets on my bed to the dark green flannel set. Then I mindlessly flip channels on the TV until I realize that by going around and around the dial, I’ve seen everything I *don’t* want to watch several times.

Deciding on an early and extra long run for the morning, to balance out the far-too much I ate today, I don’t feel guilty about getting into bed before 10:00 .

As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m immediately thinking of Clay again; my body at the ready for whatever fantasy I can dream up. I feel a little naughty because, while I’ve certainly felt an attraction between us, I haven’t, until now, considered imagining him while indulging in some self-gratification. I wonder what he’d think. I hope he’d be flattered; he should be. He’s incredibly sexy, especially when he’s laughing and his mirth is directed right at you. Or when he’s serious and he nails you with a stare that’s so intense you feel like he’s searing his eyes right into your psyche.

I pass a hand under my pajama top, and lazily fondle one of my breasts while I conjure up Clay’s face in my mind. All the moods and situations I’ve seen him in flip past – smiling at his own sarcasm, stoically filling AJ in on an op, excruciating pain on his features as I hold him on a dirty little bed in the Chaco Boreal (an image I’m quick to replace), his three piece suits and the way they make him look so serious, his dusty countenance after we’d traveled by bumpy Humvee to the detention camp in Afghanistan, the lick of his lips and nod of his head as he gave me the ‘go’ signal to get myself out of the grips of the prisoner there, and finally, a look comes unbidden to my mind. It’s one I’ve never seen in real life, and never really considered before on Clay, but he looks mighty sexy in this image I’ve concocted. A newly grown-in goatee frames his chin and mouth, his hair’s slicked back, and he looks a bit ratty, as if he’s trying to blend in someplace slightly seedy.

I wonder if he’s had to don this ‘scruffy’ look for ops before, and if I’ll ever get to see him that way. I push aside thoughts of when I’ll even talk to him again, much less see him, in favor of concentrating on this new look I’ve imagined for him.

My fingertips slide across my hardened nipple, picturing him smiling with a kind of mischievous grin as he leans in to kiss me. I can practically feel the scruff of his beard on my face, and his scent, so familiar to me after our close quarters in Paraguay , fills my nostrils. I’m completely enveloped in my fantasy now, and I bid my own hands to perform what I envision Clay to be doing to my body.

He nuzzles my neck, breathing in my own smell, and exhaling a heat that spreads chills through me. His hands are in my hair, and he’s whispering to me while he presses his body to mine. “Sarah.” His erection strains through his roughed-up looking black jeans, and I arch my body out to meet his, pressing my breasts to his firm chest.

“I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you. I wanted to.”

“I know; it’s okay. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Somehow, we’re on top of a bed, unclothed; Clay’s hovering above me, and we’re kissing in a desperate dueling slide of tongues and nipping lips. One of his hands caresses a breast, the other wanders down my naked form. His dexterous fingers, now steady and no longer nerve damaged from his torture, pinch and roll my nipple into a hard bud. The tingling sensations that begin there shoot down to where his other hand is exploring my folds. I break our kiss to pant breathy, desirous air into my lungs, and out again. Clay takes the opportunity to brush his scratchy facial hair over my un-attended nipple.

I feel a finger slipping between my folds, and Clay groans against my breast at how wet I am. It makes me smile when I also feel him angling his hips to my body to press his cock harder against me. I love that I can affect him that way – the way he’s affecting me.

My body’s tingling with the need for him, and when I hear, and feel, his whispers against my chest, I’m lost to him.

“You’re so soft and wonderful. So soft.” His comments are followed by a rushed, “So tight,” as he slips a finger into my waiting core, and his teeth bite down on my nipple to suck and tease me there, too.

I run my fingers through his hair, which is kind of greasy and smells of cigarette smoke; I wonder where this op has taken him, but it thrills me that he’s here with me now. We shift on the small bed in this tiny studio apartment as we struggle to be closer together. Bodies longing to merge into each other, while gaining and giving the most pleasure possible.

He withdraws his hand from between my legs, and, for a moment only, I feel a cool emptiness there, before he settles his body in its place. With his cock pressed at my opening, I lean up and grasp the back of his neck to bring him to me.

“I missed you,” I whisper as he enters me, and I feel myself immediately spinning toward the edge, and out of control. I try to hold back, wanting to fall over that precipice with him, but he grinds his hips into mine in a circular motion, which has me gasping for air and reveling in the waves that possess me, which begin their crashing from where Clay’s drawing his cock in and out of my body.

As soon as I’m coming back down from the hard-hitting orgasm, Clay deftly flips us over, and, with his eyes, implores me to take over control of our lovemaking. I readily comply, and hold his hands over his head, riding his hips and cock until I can see the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepen, and an expression of bittersweet ecstasy washes over his handsome features.

I collapse onto him and we cling together, his hands stroking long lazy lines down my spine, his lips placing small kisses on my neck and ear. And I feel us both slipping into a deep sleep, wrapped up together.

I wake up, roll over, and realize that I am, of course, home alone. It’s 6:32 am , and, lying on my back, I breathe deeply and open and shut my eyes a few times, clearing away the sleepy feeling from my brain. I review in my mind the fantasy I had last night, which somehow seemed to morph into an actual dream. The feeling that I somehow ‘connected’ with Clay washes over me. I’m a little creeped out by the prospect, not because I don’t want to have that kind of connection with Clay, but because it’s not something that happens often, and it’s always kind of unsettling. I don’t like not having control over my emotions that way, and the ‘visions’ usually mean someone I care deeply about is in trouble.

The feeling of frustration that I don’t know where Clay is, or what he’s doing, stays with me through my run, and the shower that I take afterwards. I decide to brave the department stores, if just to get out of my apartment and someplace where I can sort of lose myself in the crowd.

The stores aren’t as fiercely packed as I’d feared, and I even manage to pick up a couple of gifts – a Page-A-Day calendar of miniature paper airplanes for Harm, and one with Star Trek trivia for Bud. I end the day on my couch, alternately paying attention to my book and to ‘The Santa Clause,’ which is playing on TV in the background.

*********************

I untie the laces of the heavy boots I’m wearing, and, as I kick them off and back across the room toward the front door of my temporary home – a shabby little studio apartment in Grozny , I grab the wool stocking cap off my head. I stare at my reflection in the dingy mirror that hangs over the small chest of drawers, which serves as the only furniture in the place, save for the bed and a rickety chair.

My greasy hair is sticking up from the hat coming off my head, and while I try to slick it down again, as I’d originally done this morning using some kind of goop, I ponder keeping the facial hair I’ve grown for this assignment. It’s my first since Paraguay . My recovery was remarkably, and thankfully, fast. As the word ‘thankfully’ comes to mind, I remember that it’s Thanksgiving, back home. Or it was. By now, everyone’s in bed. Actually, here, most people are in bed, as well, if they have beds.

Grozny has taken a mighty beating. The city’s still in a shambles, and getting credible intelligence reports out of Chechnya has proved incredibly difficult, which is why I’m here. Though my Russian was rudimentary, I’d been given this assignment as a kind of ‘test case;’ an opportunity to get my sea legs back. Plus, Sergei was my recruit, so it’s a fitting welcome back to be the one to check up on things here.

I’m thankful for many things this year: my health – hell, my life – my family, Sarah MacKenzie. And not necessarily in that order. Both my mother and Sarah are responsible for me being in this world right now. 

Sarah immediately showed a steadfast patience for my badly planned mission. A mission to take out both Garcia and Sadiq, and save my career in the process, took on an air of greed when I recruited Sarah to be my ‘wife.’ But she accepted my confessions with understanding, and, later on, the bungled declarations of my feelings, without turning it into the embarrassing fiasco it could have been. Not that I would’ve cared at the time. I was too badly beaten, and scared to death, for both of our lives. Most significant to me, though, is the way she was willing to lay her life on the line for me, the way I’d tried to do for her.

When we got back, I covered my mistakes in the op, and my overwhelming gratitude for Sarah, with bravado, plunging on ahead as if we were building up to a sexy and easy physical relationship. But it’ll never be that easy with her, I know. So many things come without difficulty to me when it comes to Sarah – my deep feelings for her, the way we can talk and laugh, and I’m remarkably open with her – but I know that if we’re ever going to make the transition to a physical relationship – as I so badly want – we’re going to have to address what we went through in Paraguay, and how it’s affected us.

I’ve already spent time with a Company shrink, and, in spite of my initial resistance, it was surprisingly helpful. That was around the time I began backing off spending so much time with Sarah. I needed that emotional distance from her to process everything. Then the Russian language lessons started. Eight to ten hours a day, and, while I was anxious for the mental challenge, it was exhausting. Just when my body was starting to get used to a regular work schedule, I had to be at the top of my intellectual game, as well.

The lessons paid off. With the weight I lost in Paraguay , and never put back on, the scruffy goatee I’ve grown, and greasy hair I’ve been sporting, I’ve been able to blend in here, in Chechnya . I’ve met with Sergei six or seven times, and we’ve shadowed his network of contacts. He’s made inroads with some impressively scary, and well-connected, characters on all fronts of the black market and the military here. We should soon be reaping the benefits of the relationship-building he’s been doing.

I drop heavily to sit on the edge of my bed, and begin to strip off my outer layer, in preparation for a bath. The room’s very cold, so I only shed my jacket, wool sweater, and socks, before going into the bathroom to start the water in the tub. I’m lucky enough to have my own bathroom here, but not fortunate enough to have a shower. I’ll be so glad to get back to the states and to my luxurious three-headed shower. But, for now, I’m quite content to have a bath, and to know that I’ll be on a plane out of here tomorrow morning.

The water’s hot and plentiful tonight, another small detail to be thankful for. I strip the rest of the way down and plunge into the hot water as fast as possible. The difference between the stinging cold of the air and the stinging heat of the water is a bit jarring, especially on some of the still pink and healing scars on my body. I’m not quite back to my pre-South America fitness, but I’m close. I’m a leaner version of my old self, and it’s probably good for me if I want to avoid any middle-age spread.

I lean back into the water and sink all the way down, dunking my head beneath the surface. Scrubbing my scalp, I loosen the greasy locks and then bring my face just out of the water, my ears and most of my head still submerged. I float that way for a few moments, enjoying the odd quiet of under the water, and willing my body to relax, even though my knees are getting chilled where they stick up out of the too-small tub.

Sitting up, I grab up the threadbare washcloth and industrial smelling cake of soap to wash up. I end with my hair, glad to be getting it all the way clean at last. When I’m done, I note how gray the water has become, and decide that I’ll have to take a follow-up bath to really feel clean. In the meantime, I soak in the rest of the heat from this one.

My eyes shut and I think, again, about Sarah – her beautiful smile, her sexy shape; how much I want her, how I hope she’ll forgive me disentangling myself from the wonderful habit of her company, and then leaving the country without telling her.

I close my eyes and picture her at home, in her bed, and what I’d like to do with her there. Without a word, she’d let me into her apartment and, dressed in just a bathrobe and fresh from a bath herself, she’d lead me back to her room.

My hand reaches out for the soap, and I lather up a hand to reach toward my aching groin. If I’m going to draw another bath, I might as well take advantage of it and get really sticky. My erection is already mostly formed, and just one firm stroke and a vision of Sarah letting her robe fall to the floor, the material flowing off her long, naked body in a cascade of white, has me hard.

“I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you. I wanted to.”

“I know; it’s okay. I’m so glad you’re here.” She whispers her answer and holds her hand out to me, inviting me to the bed.

I walk to her, tossing my t-shirt over my head and to the floor. She reaches for my pants, and, in no time, we’re bare skinned and on her luxurious down comforter, not bothering to get under the covers. I relish the feel of her skin under my touch, and I follow every caress with a kiss. She lays, sprawled, soaking in my every stroke, pat, kiss, and nibble.

My mouth seeks out her breasts, which are visibly rising and falling with her increasingly heavy breathing. The skin of her areolas tighten and raise her nipples into beautifully hard peaks. One hand hefts the weight of a breast in its palm, the fingers toying with the firm bud. My mouth finds her other nipple, and I first tease her there with the scruff from my goatee. She arches her back, begging for my mouth, and I oblige, sucking and laving my tongue there.

Skimming my other hand down her supple belly, I find the curls that frame her core. Gently and slowly, even as I’m devouring her breasts with my mouth, I slip a finger between her folds. My heart beats hard and fast, and my erection hardens when I realize how wet she is already. Wet and ready for me.

Lifting my head, I look to see Sarah with her head pressed back into the soft bedding, her mouth agape and tongue quickly flicking out to moisten her lips. Plunging a finger inside her, I bring my mouth back up to hers and claim her mouth just after whispering my accolades. “You’re so soft and wonderful. So tight.”

She gasps into my mouth while I move now two fingers in her, and flick my thumb over her clit. Our tongues twine together, desperately fighting to heighten the erotic feelings. I feel her shudder around my fingers and under my body, half covered with mine. A small wave of an orgasm ripples through her, and then she asks for more.

“I want you,” she declares.

I roll us over and she immediately positions herself over my length, taking just a moment to lavish attention there, and I thrust into her capable hands. She continues to take charge, teasing herself with my cock, and I’m close to begging her when she plunges down, oh-so-slowly, onto me. It’s my turn to throw my head back against the down comforter in my passion, as Sarah and I move in tandem, thrusting together harder and faster, until again I feel her muscles clamping around me, this time holding my cock hard within her. My own climax takes over my body, and I lock onto her face, still poised with an expression of ecstasy of her own.

When I come down from the sexual high, she leans down and embraces me, whispering, “I missed you.”

Unfortunately, I find myself back in the reality of my dingy apartment in Grozny , in a tub of chilly water. Though, my orgasm did do wonders to relax me, and I think after I rinse off in a clean tub of water, I’ll be able to sleep soundly before my long and grueling trek home tomorrow. I’m efficient as I drain and fill the tub back up to clean off the remaining grime and soap scum from my body.

Casting another look at myself in the mirror before going to bed, I decide to leave the goatee until I get back. Mother will hate it, and I’d at least like to tease her with it for a day or so.

*********************

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, 2003

My doorbell rings and I can’t imagine who’d just drop by. Most of my friends call first, though, it could be a neighbor. I’m completely floored by the presence of Clay. And even more shocked by the fact that he’s got a goatee. It’s precisely like the one he wore in my ‘vision’ the other night.

His hands stuffed into his overcoat pockets, he grins at my reaction, and then speaks. “Hello, Sarah.”

“It looks as good in person as it did in my mind,” I say cryptically, wanting immediately to share the vision I’d had of him, skipping, at least for now, the sex part.

“Excuse me?” He looks puzzled, but mostly, he’s smiling at me, and it’s so good to see him.

“In a second. Come in.” I step back to let him in and shut the door. “Come here.”

We hug, and cling tightly to one another.

“I’m really sorry I disappeared. I needed to work through some stuff at work, and with me, too. Then I was in Grozny . Sergei says, ‘hello.’”

“I missed you, too. It feels so good to see you again.” I’m getting overcome with emotion. Suddenly very caught up in how he feels pressed to me, with his arms encircling me tightly, his hands subtly caressing my back.

Leaning back, he queries, “What was that about me in your mind?”

“I had what you might call a ‘premonition’ about you the other night and you had a goatee.” I reach to touch the long whiskers on his chin and tug slightly, in a teasing manner.

“What else was in this little premonition of yours?” His smirk and suggestive tone bring us back to the flirty place we’d left off before he’d stopped calling or meeting me for lunch.

“Play your cards right, and I just might show you.” It’s nothing I haven’t hinted at before, though in the past, a playful ‘yeah, right’ undertone had scored my responses to his overtures. This time, I’m serious.

“Sarah,” be begins, sensing a change in our banter.

“Yeah, I know. But we need to talk.”

“Not in a bad way, though. I hope.”

We’re still standing just inside my apartment door, loosely hanging onto each other. “No, not in a bad way,” I affirm, and grasp his hand to pull him all the way into the room.

He pulls on one end of the soft looking gray scarf that hangs around his neck, then shrugs off his overcoat, which he drapes on top of one of my living room chairs. By mutual agreement, we sit on the couch and hold hands. We’re angled to each other, and it feels impossible to put into words the thoughts I’d had sketched out so well in my mind on Thanksgiving. Right now, jumbled pieces of half-formed ideas come to the surface – if we start a physical relationship it won’t be slow or casual, I feel closer to him than to anyone – but, as soon as the thoughts bubble up, they sink away, out of reach.

At last, we begin, hesitantly at first, gently feeling our way around the topic, eventually approaching it straight on, and when he makes plain that he neither wants a fast fling nor could consider something casual with me, I think we both breathe a sigh of relief. I tell him more about my vision of him in the goatee, and describe the small apartment I’d ‘seen.’ He’s amazed at how close it is to the studio he’d been renting in Grozny . I also hint at what else I’d envisioned that night.

“Is that enough talking for now? Because I really want to kiss you, and you can find out if kissing me for real is all you’d imagined.” He’s scooted closer to me, and is so far into my personal space, that it’s hard to imagine that we’d do anything but end up kissing.

“Yes, enough talking.”

His goatee is much scratchier than in my fantasy, but his lips are much softer, and sensual. I ‘hmmm’ my pleasure, but can’t help wince a little as he slides his lips over mine and angles his head, presumably to deepen our kiss.

As soon as I make the move, he pulls back, looking at me with concern. “Oh, God, it’s like kissing your brother, isn’t it?”

I laugh so hard Clay has to wait until I pull myself back together before negating his frightful theory. “Not at all, I assure you,” I say, caressing his face with one hand, and holding one of his hands to my heart with the other.

“It’s the goatee, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I say, regretfully. “I love the way it looks. It puts a kind of ‘dangerous’ spin on your face, but it’s not as soft as I’d hoped.”

“Hang on.”

He won’t tell me where he’s going, but the fact that he didn’t take his coat or scarf gives me hope he’ll be right back. And in just a couple of minutes, he’s knocking on my door, and waiting to be let in, with a small duffel bag in his hand.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit presumptuous?” I half tease, implying he’d expected to simply waltz in and spend the night with me.

“Well, I did leave it in the car, didn’t I?”

“I’ll give you that,” I concede with a laugh, but I’m privately glad he’d had the forethought to bring whatever he’s got in his bag, which I assume means he’ll stay over.

“Come with me into the bathroom?” he asks.

“Sure.” I’m still not getting what he’s up to, but I’m really curious.

He follows me down the hall, and, instead of stopping in the guest bathroom, I lead him into my bedroom. Once inside, he pauses, and I turn to see what’s stopped him. He’s just staring at me, and glancing around the room.

“I’m really happy to be home. I’m really happy to be here.”

“Me, too,” I say, walking to him, grabbing his bag to lower it to the floor, and hugging him to me again.

He avoids kissing my lips, and very softly and gently kisses my neck and nuzzles my ear. It’s still scratchy, but being this close to Clay is worth the slight annoyance. It’s also really sexy, and leaves me aching to kiss him, but he won’t let me.

“Wait. That’s why I got the bag.”

He takes my hand, kisses the palm, nips at my index finger, and toys his tongue over the tip of it. After the little tease, we go into the bathroom, and he digs through his bag, pulling out an electric razor, and a shaving kit of some sort. The leather looks soft and very worn, like it might’ve belonged to his father, or an older relative.

“Have a seat. And don’t worry, I’ll clean up after I’m done.”

I lower the toilet lid and sit there, completely enthralled. He first buzzes his goatee down to a long stubble. Then he unzips the shaving kit.

“It was my dad’s,” he says, confirming my theory.

“Did he teach you to shave?”

“No, I wasn’t old enough, really, when he died. My Uncle Jim showed me how to use a straight razor.”

“Straight razor? You’re kidding!” The thought’s a bit scary. I always thought those things looked dangerous; not really what you’d want on your face or neck.

“Nope. Closest shave you can get.”

“Come here.” I’m amazed at how immediately comfortable we seem with each other in this new facet of our relationship, especially after having no contact for over three weeks.  
He squats in front of me, and I cup his face in both my hands, studying his countenance.

“I wanted another good look at the goatee, before it’s gone.”

“For now.”

I laugh and agree, “For now.” I mimic his turn at nibbling on one of his fingers, but instead of just a teasing lick, I take his entire index finger into my mouth, and swirl my tongue purposefully around it, grating the skin lightly with my teeth, and drawing it in and out of the suction between my lips. Our eyes are locked together, and he licks his lips, leaving them parted in a sensual pose. He steadies himself with his free hand gripping my thigh. Through my jeans, I feel his fingers tracing patterns on the material, leaving hot trails on my skin.

Pretty soon, with this erotic imitation of something much more intimate, we’re both flushed, and I can feel a flood of wetness pooling between my legs.

“Sarah, I need to shave.”

I break contact with his finger, to agree, and, when he stands up, I can see his erection tenting out his light colored chinos. I resist running my hand over it, feeling a little shy about being so directly physical, but looking forward to working my way there soon.

Clay leans over my sink, and washes his face with the bar of glycerin hand soap I’ve got there. He then dashes to his duffle bag and returns with a washcloth, which he runs under the hot water tap for a time. It must be really hot, because I can see the steam rising off the small towel when he rings it out and holds it to his face for a minute. With one hand holding the cloth to his face, he fetches, out of the shaving kit, a squat cup that holds a cake of soap, a brush, and a straight razor with a mother of pearl handle. Still one handed, he adds water to the cup, and creates a good amount of foam with the brush. Eyeing himself in the mirror, he removes the towel, and swirls the soapy foam on his stubble; not just his goatee, but on the slight five o’clock shadow that’s all over his face and upper neck. He catches my eye in the mirror and smiles. It’s funny to see him in the mirror, he looks all backwards, and so I turn to watch him in person.

He opens the straight razor, carefully, I notice. “I just sharpened it; it’s got a deadly edge.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I tell him.

He smiles and winks at me. I laugh. I’ve never seen him wink, but, just like when he shows his full smile – the one with the dimples – my stomach gives a little flutter because I feel like it’s just for me.

I’m completely captivated by the way his hands so steadily and confidently scrape over his skin, removing the foam and the stubble. I can see the concentration on his face; he’s completely involved in his task, and his strong and capable hands are completely involving me, too.

Now and then he rinses off the razor and adjusts his stance in front of the counter. He works his way from his side-burns, to his neck, around his lips, and, finally, to his chin. I sit still, as if a movement from me would cause a slip of his hand, a gash to his face, and blood to stain the white oxford shirt he’s wearing. And I marvel at how still his hands are; hands that were unable to even butter bread just a few months ago.

He’s thorough and methodical in his task, and watching him wield the traditional shaving device is so sexy. As he finishes up, rinsing his face one more time, and applying a creamy lotion that smells a bit like aftershave, but with a pleasant, very light, minty scent. I suddenly realize I’ve smelled it on him before. Not in Paraguay, but the day he came to JAG to enlist my help, and maybe other times he’s come to the office.

While he’s cleaning up his razor and brush, and efficiently tidying up my sink and countertop, I watch his movements. His body’s very appealing, and it’s so wonderful to see him strong again after he was so weak and battered by Sadiq. He’d lost a lot of weight in Paraguay , and shortly after, and the last time I’d seen him, I was starting to notice that even though he hadn’t gained all his weight back, I thought he looked really fit. In fact, I think I was checking his rear out. Which, in fact, I’m doing right now. And, am, apparently, getting busted.

“See something you like?”

“As a matter of fact,” I begin, standing from the uncomfortable perch on the toilet. “But I like this, too.” I reach to his face, and run the backs of my fingers over his incredibly soft face. His skin is so smooth, it’s amazing – I’ve never known a grown man’s face to be so soft, I immediately imagine his face touching all sorts of locations on my body.“Wow, that’s really impressive. You don’t do that every day, do you?”

“No. Only on special occasions.”

“I’m flattered.”

In response, he leans to kiss me softly, and then asks for a reaction, “Better?”

“Much. But I think we could even improve on that.”

I lean to kiss him again, and immediately we’re deepening the gesture, and our tongues are seeking out one another. His freshly-scented skin is soft on my face, but his tongue is firm and exploring in my mouth. I feel like I could melt in his arms, which have encircled my waist, and I’ve grabbed onto his upper arms, both wanting to hold him, and to feel his muscles there.  
We kiss for a long time, standing in my bathroom. We map each other’s mouths, and, with our hands, begin to tentatively find zones of erogenous pleasure. I pull him to me, grabbing hard onto the firm muscles at his backside, which I’d so admired earlier. And, starting at my hip, Clay’s hands slide their way to my breasts, where they press, palm first, into my flesh.  
Breathing hard, and wanting very much to move this to the bedroom, we part, and I tug his hand; he follows my lead to the bedroom. We continue to make out, but with the bed right next to us, I make a move to tumble us to it, and he laughs when he catches me sliding my foot behind his legs.

He sits on the bed, pulling me with him, and we lie back together. He nuzzles my neck, this time with his baby-soft face, and he kisses the slightly reddened spots, which had been affected by his goatee.

“I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you. I wanted to,” he whispers into my ear, just like in my fantasy.

“I know; it’s okay. I’m so glad you’re here.” He’d already told me why he’d backed off from so much contact with me, and about what he was doing in Chechnya , but I love that it really mattered to him that he couldn’t be in touch with me.

He unbuttons the top I’ve got on, and smoothes his hands over my stomach while eyeing my breasts, and then leaning down to nip my nipples to hard points through the material of my bra. By the time he’s finished his attentions to the second breast, I’m considering begging him to remove my bra, or just sitting up and doing it myself. But he obliges with a smirk, somehow knowing just what wonderful torture he was bestowing.

I reach to his collar, and pull him close, to kiss him while I remove his shirt. Tugging the small buttons through their holes, and un-tucking it from his pants, Clay kneels up to take the garment all the way off. His chest has a few pink scars and my eyes fly to his wrists to see that the healing skin there looks only a little delicate, but healthy. He gives me a wan smile, as we remember what he went through, what we went through.

“Come here,” I ask, wanting to hold him to me, and never let him go.

“I think we should shed some more clothes and get under the covers.”

“Good idea.”

We rise from the bed, and shed the rest of our clothes. I sneak a look at his boxer-briefs, and catch him staring without shame as I slip my panties down and off. His cock is half-erect, and we walk to each other, seemingly to test how we fit together. It’s a match, I think to myself, as we embrace. He’s so warm and solid feeling, pressing his chest to my breasts and angling his hips to caress his now-growing erection against my mound.

“Bed,” I state.

I pull the covers back and we climb in. Into open arms I fall, and we explore and kiss, and suck and nip for what seems a blissful eternity, though we’re staying strictly above the waist with our hands, so far. Eventually, Clay slinks his body all the way under the covers, sliding his smooth face down between my breasts, over my belly, and over my pubic bone, to land his lips right on top of my folds. We maneuver so that he’s nestled between my legs, and I open them up wide for him. I know I’m already soaking with desire for him, and what he’s about to do will send me over the edge. I’ve already been close a few times tonight, and he hadn’t really even touched me there yet. Just the way he’d lightly pinched and then mouthed and licked at each nipple had me on edge, and, arching my body to his, I was aware of his hard erection pressing into my hip.  
I feel Clay’s hands on my inner thighs, running one up each leg, until they meet at my core.   
Kisses follow his hands, and a finger slips between my folds and inside me. I clench my inner muscles tight in a carnal reaction, and hear him mumble from under the covers, “You’re so soft and wonderful. So tight.”

I toss back the sheet and blankets, not wanting him to be a disembodied voice or a faceless feeling of pleasure. I look down and see his hair all mussed, and his face buried in my curls. He looks his eyes up to me, and I feel him grin as I see his cheekbones tighten into what I know is a smile – dimples and all.

The smile fades, as I feel his tongue reach out for my clit, to taste and expertly manipulate the bundle of nerves. My eyes shut, forgetting that I’d wanted to watch him, and I lose myself in the pleasure of it all. I can feel his hot breath coming through his mouth and nostrils onto my moist skin, and while his fingers stroke with purpose from the inside, he’s suckling and swirling his tongue around my clit until I’m gasping for air, and, I think, calling his name. I hold onto the edge of the bed, which I can reach with my left hand, and when I look down at Clay again, he’s kind of wiping his mouth on my leg. I laugh at the uncouth gesture, but hold my arms out to him.

He crawls up to meet me, as I sit up to meet him half way. We collapse to the side, shoving the covers out of the way, and sprawling out across the bed, diagonally. He smells, and tastes, like the minty aftershave stuff, and like me. I devour his mouth, and his tongue dives in to trace the roof of my mouth, his body heavy on mine. I wrap a leg around one of his, nudging him between my legs, bringing his cock right to my entrance.

With a soft series of plunges, he’s inside me all the way, and we’re still kissing, hot and fast, barely connecting our lips, but nipping our teeth and lapping our tongues. I feel Clay’s thrusts increasing in speed and intensity, and it’s a short moment later when he gasps hard in my ear, and his pants come in tough little bursts. He presses hard into me, and when I squeeze my legs together, I’m able to make myself come again as his climax fades.

We relax back onto the bed, and I stroke his soft face, feeling his smile and dimples with my fingers. He holds my fingertips to his mouth and kisses them lightly, leaving them on his lips while he talks softly.

“I didn’t really expect to do this or spend the night. I admit, I’d hoped, though.”

“Well, since I didn’t even know you were in town, I didn’t have a chance to give it any thought. But I’m really glad you showed up. Watching you shave was so sexy and erotic.”

“I’ve never shaved for an audience before. Not with the straight razor, anyway.”

“Well, I hope this isn’t the debut performance in a long ‘tour.’ I think I’d like to keep that a private show.”

“It’s all yours,” he says, turning on his side, and rising up on his forearm to look down at me.

“And I do want you to spend the night, but I have to work in the morning.”

“Me, too; but can I cook for you at my place, tomorrow night?”

“Have you ever known me to turn down food?”

We dissolve into silly banter, and eventually shower before pulling the bed covers back into place, and sleeping soundly through the night. I do wake a couple of times, almost thinking we were back in Sadiq’s hacienda, but quickly realizing that that nightmare has lead to this dream: Clay in my bed, safe, sound, and satisfied.

In the morning, we manage to both get ready with a fair amount of efficiency. Right on time, I grab my briefcase, don my cover, and secure my overcoat. Turning to see if Clay’s ready, I watch him fetch his dark wool overcoat and light gray scarf from the back of the chair he’d hung them over last night.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Yep.” Clay shoots me a very domestic smile, and I feel like we’re really in sync. This all feels very natural.

“Oops, hang on.” I forgot the file I’d been reviewing over the weekend. Thinking I remember seeing it in my bedroom, I trot back there.

“Sarah, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later,” Clay yells down the hall from his waiting spot at the front door.

I see the file on my dresser, and holler back to him as I run to the front of the house. “Wait, Clay... I'm coming...”

He’s standing with one hand on the open door, his body angled almost away from me, but with an open earnest expression on his face as he looks back toward me. “Not yet, but wait until tonight."

END


End file.
